


Dominion

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dominance, Ficlet, M/M, PWP, Power Play, Rough Oral Sex, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:16:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fëanor requires pleasure in the Woodland Realm, and its king will barely do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Was wondering who could dom Thranduil and figured, well... suspend your belief.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Silmarillion any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

How the mighty have fallen. These were no true relatives of his, but it still irks Fëanor to see what’s become of Elven lands, what Morgoth’s corruption and weak leaders have whittled away. The halls he’s shown through might impress the eyes of Men, but they’re _nothing_ to what he’s known. He begins to wonder, even constrained as he is, if it was worth fighting Mandos for what little release he has. His name still makes servants cower, but the “king” that shows him about looks at him in faint annoyance when he shows no awe.

He had to end it eventually, to insist upon being given quarters to rest—it was a long journey, longer than these sheltered creatures could ever know. He’s shown to them now, ushered into a mid-size chamber with a high ceiling of gnarled roots and carvings, the walls lined in pre-lit candles. King Thranduil gestures to the grand bed and the washing amenities in an attached room, and tells him, “Tauriel will stand watch outside your door—she will fetch you anything you need.” The elf with fire-bright hair, almost as rich as Maedhros’, nods her head in a formal bow. She shows more respect than her king, but Fëanor barely spares her a look.

Fëanor waits for more, and when it’s clear that Thranduil thinks himself the one waiting for parting words, Fëanor drawls, “Is it no longer the custom to grant lords the courtesy of warmth for the night?”

The hint of irritation flares in Thranduil’s eyes again—Fëanor does nothing to restrain the condescension in his tone. It’s more than that, he thinks, but can’t tell if the trouble comes from shame over allowing Morgoth’s poison to linger in these woods, latent and misplaced judgment of the Noldor’s glory, or simply jealousy that Fëanor is clearly a greater lord. But Thranduil acquiesces and gestures at the guards still lingering in the doorway. They file in one by one, each plain-faced and laughably young. Perhaps such things might satisfy Thranduil, but they’re far too feeble for Fëanor’s touch. None dare to meet his eyes, though all stand stiffly at attention. He’s sure any one would be honoured to be chosen, but none are worthy of it. 

Past the first glance, he doesn’t look at them again. Instead, he steps forward, and notes the haughty way that Thranduil lifts his chin. Thranduil, too, is a mere child by Fëanor’s years, but he has, at least, a stronger bearing. Fëanor eyes the harsh cut of his jaw, the height of his cheekbones, and the icy hue of his eyes. His white-gold hair shimmers luxuriously in the candlelight, streaming smoothly down his broad shoulders, and his crown—a flimsy thing of twigs—at least gives him decoration. Fëanor takes a step aside to observe the slender curve of Thranduil’s frame, then circles to the back and sucks in that view. Thranduil stands impressively sill throughout, until Fëanor comes back around and darts a hand out to grasp his chin. Then Thranduil grunts, teeth gritting, but Fëanor’s fingers tighten in his flesh, grip firm. 

For all to hear, Fëanor decides, “If this is the best the Woodland Realm can offer, then I will take this one.” The red-haired one at the door tenses, but of course none move to stop him. Fëanor can see the anger flaring in Thranduil’s eyes over being addressed so before his subjects, but Fëanor is unrelenting. 

He’s mildly surprised when Thranduil surrenders to it. Thranduil hisses, “Dismissed,” and the three guards hesitantly shuffle away. They show reluctance at leaving their king behind, but at least they prove obedient. The captain of them is the last to leave, with another bow sent to both, and she shuts the door behind her. It’s clear from the wariness of her stance that she expected her king to leave with her, but Fëanor has other plans.

Only when they’re alone does he release his grip. Thranduil tests his jaw but doesn’t otherwise move, just growls low, “I am _not_ a pleasure slave.”

“No,” Fëanor muses, his eyes overtly flickering down and drawing slowly, lewdly, back up. “You are a bit young for one.”

Thranduil wrinkles his nose. The sheer impertinence almost makes Fëanor laugh. No doubt, Thranduil thinks himself quite old by this land’s time, but Fëanor drawls, “To me, you are barely a child.” Another step, and they’re almost flush together; Thranduil’s nose brushes the tip of his. In a deep purr, Fëanor finishes, “But you are handsome enough: you will do.”

Thranduil’s face twists, clearly struggling with response to such a legendary being, but he finally settles on looking bitterly aside. Fëanor only chuckles at this and says, “If you do not wish to lie with the greatest elf that ever lived, you are free to leave.” He gestures vaguely out towards the door, knowing Thranduil won’t be going anywhere. No one’s ever turned down the offer of his bed, and this one in particular seems to appreciate the importance of _power_.

A tight fist in Thranduil’s hair, and Thranduil looks up with a hitch of breath at the tug of it, but still not over—Fëanor has to grab his chin again and force him around. Then Fëanor surges forward, shoving Thranduil against him all at once, and he isn’t the least bit surprised when Thranduil kisses him fiercely back. 

The kiss is rapid, intense, and appropriately raunchy, both fighting the other, but Fëanor quickly tames Thranduil with a nip to his tongue and a fierce jerk of his hair. Thranduil is fast, but not fast enough to return the bite, and trying only throws him off balance, makes it easier for Fëanor to ravage his mouth. Only when Fëanor’s sufficiently plundered it does he pull back to chuckle, “You are used to being the dominant one, I see.” Thranduil’s already breathing hard, his eyes now fixed on Fëanor’s lips. Fëanor makes it clear: “ _No more_.”

He kisses Thranduil again, brutal and ravenous—this alone would’ve broken any of the delicate creatures Thranduil tried to offer him. Fëanor spares no expense; he steals Thranduil’s breath and makes it abundantly obvious who’s in control, then bites into Thranduil’s bottom lip just for good measure, sucks in his tongue and rams against his teeth. Before the kiss is even finished, Fëanor is pushing him down, and Thranduil struggles to stay upright for a moment, but he’s no match for Fëanor’s strength. Fëanor forces Thranduil to his knees, relinquishing the kiss along the way, and enjoys the pretty sight of Thranduil’s silver robes pooled out along the floor. Thranduil cranes back to look, neck pulled taut by Fëanor’s fist in his hair. Fëanor wonders idly how many others Thranduil has had at his feet, and if he’s knelt for anyone else. From the look on his face, it seems unlikely. When Fëanor withdraws his hand from that silk-soft hair, Thranduil smartly remains where he is.

Fëanor plucks up his crown, almost as an afterthought, and tosses it towards the bed without looking. Fury storms Thranduil’s features, but he doesn’t move. Fëanor rakes a hand back through his hair, from his forehead to the back of his neck, repeating this a few times just to enjoy the softness—the novelties in Mandos’ halls don’t have the same joy of this raw touch. Fëanor himself would fight far harder if anyone tried to remove his crown in his halls, but then, he has no elf sufficiently above him as he is to Thranduil. Thranduil remains obediently kneeling, and to reward this, Fëanor purrs, “You are a pretty sight.” The wording, perhaps, isn’t the best for praise—Thranduil merely looks annoyed again. No doubt, he thinks himself quite handsome. 

Fëanor was once the crowning jewel of court. He has sons that would put Thranduil to shame, sons far older and, hopefully, much slower to break. But this will do while he travels on Mandos’ leave, and he stops petting Thranduil’s hair to ordain, “You may open my trousers with your mouth.” He’s sure that Thranduil knows how.

Thranduil makes no more protest than before, though he looks equally as insulted. His robes are the long, feather-light kind that can be easily shed for just this purpose, but Fëanor wears gear more befitting a traveling warrior. His armour has since been retired, but the tunic and trousers underneath are as expensive as the rest. His long coat is deep crimson and embroidered with gold, littered, like his boots, in the jewels of his homeland. This sort of garb isn’t meant to be sullied with saliva, but Fëanor _only_ dresses in splendor, and he enjoys the look of Thranduil bending forward, teeth parting to catch the ties at his crotch. Sure enough, Thranduil tugs them free with practiced ease, then bites the hem and drags it down, just low enough for Fëanor to help and pull out his cock. It’s half hard in anticipation but tempered in experience. The bitterness melts away from Thranduil’s face when he sees it, instead captured in awe that he quickly tries to restrain. Fëanor wouldn’t be surprised to hear Thranduil dreamed of this when he first learned of Fëanor’s arrival, thought it may have played out differently in his mind.

Despite all his insolence, Thranduil mouths at Fëanor’s cock with ardor. He swiftly buries himself against the base, inhaling deeply, eyes fluttering shut, cheeks flushed with pleasure—he’s definitely an elf of _pleasure_ , if Fëanor’s ever seen one, having guards so ready to parade into bedchambers and wine that flowed so freely at dinner. There’s a shamelessness to the way Thranduil runs his tongue along the underside, his hands trailing up Fëanor’s legs for purchase. Thranduil nuzzles in from every angle first, kissing and licking with sudden fervor. The regal countenance has completely fallen away. Fëanor offers no guidance here, and instead enjoys the way Thranduil contents himself with it. Clearly, the time spent frozen in loss hasn’t dulled Fëanor’s appeal at all. Thranduil worships the greatest cock of their kind, showing nothing but reverence and _lust_ , until Fëanor bucks forward suddenly to grind his cock up Thranduil’s pretty face. The head smears precum into his hair, and Thranduil splutters, the one eye with the cock across it closed while the other looks up to glare. Fëanor merely smirks and lightly slaps Thranduil’s cheek. The mighty are always the most fun to conquer.

Even with that aggravation back, Thranduil parts his lips subserviently when Fëanor pokes his cock against them. _Every_ elf Fëanor’s ever done this to has opened for him. Only Thranduil has managed to look begrudging while doing it, but the _want_ in Thranduil’s eyes is plenty clear. Fëanor pistons himself inside, and Thranduil relaxes his throat to take it. When Fëanor reaches the back, he just keeps going, and Thranduil struggles but swallows and lets Fëanor keep going, until Fëanor has slid his way in to the base. Sheathed completely, he rocks forward, and Thranduil makes a choking noise but nothing more. His jaw looks stretched as wide as it can go, teeth fighting not to scrape, bow lips opened in a perfect circle. His looks, at least, may be worthy of his station.

Thranduil tries to set the pace. He starts to slide off, but Fëanor slams in again before Thranduil gets a chance, and another bruising thrust comes shortly after. Each time, Thranduil regains himself just enough to manage the next wave, and Fëanor is as merciless in this as he is in everything. He fucks Thranduil’s mouth full force. Thranduil’s fight to manage only makes it more delicious. His throat is tight, tongue soft, mouth tight and wet, and he tries to suck when he can, to maintain some form of _control_ , but Fëanor is the one that owns him. Fëanor’s hips jerk relentlessly forward, likely rubbing Thranduil’s throat raw, but still, Thranduil stubbornly stays in place, trying to cope. The saliva pools along his lips and dribbles down his chin before he can suck it away, and the mess only adds to Fëanor’s pleasure: Thranduil looks made to be debauched. Fëanor ruins him easily. Fëanor fucks him over and over, until the heat’s mounted enough, and Fëanor decides that he’d like to move on—he wants to bury himself in Thranduil’s ass next, pound him hard into the bed and maybe up against a wall.

It’s soon, but Fëanor lets himself finish, sure to let the first spurt come while he’s still thrust fully down Thranduil’s tight throat. Thranduil’s throat spasms at the sudden assault, more spit bubbling up and cheeks burning, but Fëanor doesn’t move until he’s sure that Thranduil will have no choice but to swallow it. Then he jerks out and grabs his shaft, pointing steadfast at Thranduil’s handsome face. The remaining seed splatters everywhere, drenching Thranduil’s nose and open lips and quickly-shut eyes. Fëanor was particularly sad to learn that those who walk Middle Earth no longer spill as much seed as they did in Valinor, but he’s of old stock and comes enough for ten of them. He paints Thranduil’s skin in his release, then rubs what’s left onto Thranduil’s cheek. Thranduil shudders but still holds his head high. 

He opens one eye—the one not coated in a thick glob of Fëanor’s cum—and glares indignantly. Fëanor can’t help a smirk and chuckles, “I may have to revise my disparaging remarks of the beauty here: the king of the Woodland Realm looks good with cum across his face.”

Thranduil finally gives in to the use of his hand, and Fëanor allows him to wipe what he can off his face, sullying his princely robes. He’s breathing hard, the tent between his legs quite noticeable. Far before Thranduil’s finished, Fëanor orders, “Get up.” Thranduil obeys. Then Fëanor adds, “Strip,” and Thranduil is forced to abandon cleaning himself. His hands move to unfasten his robes instead, and sure enough, they slip simply to the floor when he’s finished. He steps out of the boots he’s left in without having to be told, then straightens to his full height again, utterly naked but standing proud.

Properly undressed and smeared, he’s a gorgeous specimen. He makes no move to cover himself, and Fëanor enjoys the sight: his broad chest, his taut stomach, the faint tones of lean muscles but the classically slender Elven build, his soft thighs and strong legs and the jut of his large cock. It’s completely erect, pink at the head and even leaking a first bead of interest. Fëanor’s tempted to grab him by it and drag him forward.

Instead, Fëanor nods towards the door again and asks, “Will you stay the night?” It’s almost rhetorical. He still grants the courtesy. Thranduil looks displeased by the mere suggestion that he’d leave. 

He springs forward suddenly, his mouth smashing against Fëanor’s, the slickness along his chin a disgusting additive. Fëanor bites hard into Thranduil’s bottom lip, and Thranduil wrenches back, blood oozing up to flood his teeth. He wipes it away on the back of his hand, glaring daggers, and as soon as the hand drops, Fëanor backhands him hard across the cheek. Thranduil totters but doesn’t fall. Fëanor hisses, “Brat.”

Thranduil leans warily away now. He tentatively touches the red mark that blooms across his skin, but the label of ‘brat’ looks to have bothered him more. He takes a minute to mutter, “We are two kings and should love like ones.”

Fëanor merely snorts, “I was a king long before you were ever conceived, and if you wish to know the pleasure of the great Fëanor, forger of the greatest light this world has ever known, you will rein in your embarrassing, youthful urges and lie across the bed.”

Thranduil looks murderous but goes. Fëanor watches his ass sway as he crawls onto the mattress, up on all fours, inviting enough to make up for his impudence. Then he lays down, on his stomach, like a sullen child that still wants dessert.

Fëanor plans to deliver. He finally lets his coat fall from his shoulders and muses that, perhaps, this place might prove worth the long journey after all.


End file.
